


Punishment

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, Sex Toys, badwrong noncon porn, jon has a very bad day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: The door opens almost before he’s done knocking, his arm still in the process of lowering. A woman opens it. Petite, dark skinned and smiling politely at him.“Hello,” she greets him pleasantly.“Ah,” Jon says. She is absolutely not a blue eyed man with a Lichtenberg figure scar crawling up her neck. She is about as far from it as it is possible to get. “I-- excuse me, I must have gotten the wrong address, mixed the numbers up.”“No, you didn’t,” she says reassuringly. “I think this is exactly where Jude Perry wanted for you to end up. Shouldn’t have made her angry, Jon. Come inside.”Jon steps inside.He hadn’t made the decision to step inside.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2020





	Punishment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aunt_zelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/gifts).



Jon fixes the bandage on his hand, where it’d been starting to go a bit loose. Hazards of doing it himself, instead of going to the hospital, or even asking Georgie for help. He doesn’t want for her to worry. It’s not a serious burn, anyways. Well, not _that_ serious. Not as serious as it would’ve been if he hadn’t snatched his hand out of Jude’s as soon as it had begun to hurt. She hadn’t been happy about that. She’d looked like she’d wanted to clamp down and keep going as he screamed until his hand had gone as melty and runny as if it were made of wax. 

But instead he’d snatched his hand out of hers, and it’s a burn that will eventually heal with no serious nerve damage, if his clumsy googling of identifying what exact degree a burn injury is last night was correct. 

Jude had not been pleased. But she’d given him Michael Crew’s address anyways, so he decides that he won’t particularly mind not letting the woman made of wax maim him quite as much as she wanted to. 

Somehow, he hadn’t expected for Michael Crew to live in a house. Monstrous serial killers shouldn’t have a mortgage and a post box. That doesn’t feel right. They should be… well, he doesn’t know. Living in a spooky cave in the woods? That sounds foolish, when he actually thinks it through. 

There are flower boxes at the windows. It’s still ridiculous. 

Taking a deep breath, he walks up to the door and knocks. He tries not to think of every single Statement about Michael Crew that involved some poor sod going splat that he’s ever read--

The door opens almost before he’s done knocking, his arm still in the process of lowering. A woman opens it. Petite, dark skinned and smiling politely at him. 

“Hello,” she greets him pleasantly. 

“Ah,” Jon says. She is absolutely not a blue eyed man with a Lichtenberg figure scar crawling up her neck. She is about as far from it as it is possible to get. “I-- excuse me, I must have gotten the wrong address, mixed the numbers up.” 

“No, you didn’t,” she says reassuringly. “I think this is exactly where Jude Perry wanted for you to end up. Shouldn’t have made her angry, Jon. Come inside.” 

Jon steps inside. 

He _hadn’t made the decision to step inside._

“What--” he gasps, his heartbeat abruptly slamming into panicked overdrive. 

“Who,” she corrects him. “Don’t be rude, dear. Things like that is why Jude decided to play a mean trick on you and send you to my door instead of Mike’s.” 

She closes the door behind him, not even bothering to lock it. He recognizes her all at once. The bleached hair, the vintage clothes-- 

“Annabelle Cane,” falls out of his mouth as soon as he realizes, and then he _blanches._

He is standing in front of Annabelle Cane, the woman full of spiders, the woman who can pull at peoples strings as easily and deftly as a puppet master. He had resolved himself to speak with a very dangerous man today, but _this--_

“Ah,” she says with satisfaction. “There’s nothing quite as nice for the ego as being recognized. I take it you’re familiar with my work? That’s very flattering, thank you. Follow.” 

Jon wants to turn around and throw the door open. He wants to run far, far away from here. Instead, he follows Annabelle as she walks further into the townhouse. 

“Le-- let go of me,” he says, and the words come out breathless. She’s not doing anything to his lungs, he doesn’t think, he’s just so abruptly _terrified_ that he’s having trouble breathing steadily. 

“I’m not even touching you,” she says coyly. She starts climbing the stairs, and his legs dutifully follow after her. There are pictures on the walls of a happy family that don’t look anything like Annabelle. He wonders if they’re on vacation and Annabelle’s taking the opportunity to squat, or if they’re dead or worse. 

He takes a deep breath, and focuses. _“What are you going to do to me?”_

“I’m going to punish you,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you. You didn’t do anything _unforgivable._ You certainly weren’t a good puppet, though. Ignored the pull on your strings. Didn’t do as you were _supposed_ to. You should have just let her burn you properly, Jon. I’m going to make you wish that you had.” 

The relief of hearing ‘I’m not going to kill you’ is a brief mayfly reprieve. The rest of everything Annabelle says is ominous enough to quickly overshadow it. Dread churns in his stomach, and a desperate need to know what she _means_ forms inside of him, oh so familiar. Maybe if he can just find out what she-- 

“Oh,” she says. “No more of that, you tricky thing. You aren’t allowed to ask any more questions for the rest of the day.” 

He opens his mouth and-- 

And--

He clutches at his throat, panic surging again as no matter how hard he tries to speak, nothing but a breathless sort of wheezing noise comes out. 

“Settle down,” Annabelle says with an almost indulgent fondness, the way a pet owner might sound when speaking to a puppy that can’t quite figure out why it can’t just walk through the glass door, or when it won’t stop barking at its own reflection. Cute, but stupid. “Try and say something that isn’t a _question,_ Jon.” 

His mouth opens and closes several more times as _what did you do to me_ tries to slip out. He has to force himself to calm down and take the advice. Apparently, she hadn’t decided to tug at his ‘strings’ with that last command. 

“Stop it,” is the first thing he can think to say, and is dizzily relieved for a moment that he can still speak at all. It had felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe. 

“No,” she says simply. She doesn’t have to listen to him the way he has to to her. She opens a door and walks inside. He follows, no matter how furiously he tries to force his legs to _listen_ to him, to stop, to turn around. 

She’s taken him to a bedroom. 

It’s the master bedroom, it looks like. A wide thing for a married couple to fall into at the end of the day, each with their own assigned side. 

“Do you know what you did wrong, Jon?” 

He knocked on that door. He decided to trust the word of a monster. He decided to push his luck instead of giving up while he was ahead, after barely avoiding being given a debilitating injury from said monster. He decided to seek a monster out in the first place. He-- 

“Ignoring someone when they ask you a question is _very_ rude,” she says, like she’s scolding a child. “Take your clothes off.” 

His mouth opens, and he chokes on his _what,_ because questions won’t slip past his lips any longer. It doesn’t matter how caught off guard he is, though. His body doesn’t hesitate to obey her. His shirt falls to the floor, and he’s already fumbling to get his belt off with one good hand when he finds any words that are allowed. 

“I don’t know what this is,” he says, which is as close as he can get to _what are you doing?_

His belt drops to the floor. 

“You don’t know a lot of things, dear,” Annabelle says. She goes to the corner of the room and grabs a chair that had been sitting there, pulls it over and angles it so that it’s facing the bed. She sits down on it, primly smoothing out her skirt as she goes. 

He steps out of his shoes. 

“This isn’t-- I’m confused, I thought you were going to punish me.” Now that questions are forbidden, it’s the only thing he can think to say. How are you going to punish me? What does me being naked have to do with it? 

Jon read once an article about a woman who got a boil on her face. Or so she thought it was, until some weeks later it _breached,_ and hundreds and hundreds of baby spiders came crawling out of it across her face. He’d had nightmares about that for _months_ afterwards. 

He imagines being _covered_ in boils like that, and his breathing starts to go shallow and unsteady as his hands shake. They still don’t cease undressing him. 

“I am,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.” 

“Please,” he says, and that’s pathetic, being reduced to begging already, as if that’s going to change anything, convince her to show mercy. He can’t stop himself. Spiders, thousands and millions of them, underneath his skin. He _can’t._

“Oh,” she says, and a smile unfurls on her face, slow and satisfied and _hungry._ “That’s a pretty sound. _You’re_ pretty. Honestly, I really don’t have to be punishing you in this way, but the Mother has been kind enough to allow me some freedom regarding the particular details of your punishment, so long as you get punished. Vigorously and brutally, so that this day will _stick_ in your mind. I might as well have some fun with it, right?” 

By now, Jon is completely naked, his clothes gathered in a small pile at his bare feet. It’s been years since the last time he was naked in front of someone. He doesn’t want to bare himself like that to anyone he doesn’t trust completely. 

Annabelle Cane is looking at him like she wants to _eat_ him, her gaze appreciative and lingering, like she’s sizing him up for cuts of meat. 

That’s more of a Jared Hopworth sort of thing, he thinks distantly and a touch hysterically. Or possibly Tom Haan. 

He wants to cover himself in some way, but every single inch of him is exposed, and his muscles won’t obey him when he tries to tell them to reach for his abandoned clothes, not even to wear them, just to cover up-- 

“Open the top drawer of the nightstand to the left of the bed,” Annabelle orders, crossing her legs. “The former occupants have left us some useful supplies for tonight.” 

Former occupants, she says, as if all furniture isn’t still right here. Wherever that family is now, they did not leave of their own volition. 

Jon’s body moves towards the nightstand and he wonders, frantically, what sort of _supplies_ Annabelle is talking about. Restraints? She wouldn’t need those, she can just tell him to stand still as she takes him apart. Or would she like to see him struggle, like a fly caught in a web? Or perhaps there’s a weapon there hidden away for a possible breaking and entering, a knife or a _gun--_

He opens the drawer. He stares. 

It’s not a gun. 

“Take out the lube, if you please,” she says, the last bit presumably tacked on as pure mockery. “You can leave the rest be for now.” 

Jon’s hand wraps around the bottle of lube that he sees, brushing up against various other-- _devices,_ toys that he’s only ever seen but not owned himself. 

Jon’s mouth works again, the way it does when nothing but questions want to fall out, but spider web strings hold them back. Aborted sentences slip out, cut off before he can form the upward lilt of questioning. “How is this-- what are you-- you said you were going to punish me,” he repeats himself almost plaintively. This is terrifying and suddenly surreal and he needs to _understand._ He feels like there’s no solid ground underneath his feet. 

“And I am,” she says. “You’re so braced for blood and sharp edges, Jon. You should know that the Web can be more subtle and flexible than that. Creative. I can _hurt_ you in a way that won’t leave you with scars. You don’t need any more of those right now, do you? Not from me. Get on the bed.” 

Jon gets on the bed, sitting in the middle of it, naked, bottle of lube in hand. The way Annabelle has angled the chair she’s sitting in, she has a perfect, comfortable view of him. Like she’s about to enjoy a good show. 

A picture is starting to form inside of Jon’s head of where this night is going. An inevitable, terrible picture. 

Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him to be scared of being hurt like _this_ by all of the violent, hungry things that lurk in the dark. 

Was that naive of him? 

“Don’t,” he says, and there is not a single reason in the world for Annabelle to listen to him. 

“You’re finally catching up. Very good. You’re a bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you, Jon? That’s alright. All according to plan. It’s allowed. Do you know what isn’t allowed, though? Do you know what you did wrong? Do you know why you’re in trouble?” 

_No_ is obviously the wrong answer. He tries to think of what the right answer is. What had Annabelle said, when he’d managed to ask her a question? Wasn’t going to kill him, just punish him. Because-- because he wasn’t a good puppet? Didn’t do what he was supposed to do? But what had he been _supposed_ to do? He hadn’t even realized that he was disobeying someone, something. He’s just-- he’s just been trying to get some _damned answers._

“... Disobedience?” he tries. 

“Not quite,” she says. “But nice try. Disobedience _is_ bad, of course. And you’re a _very_ disobedient boy. I can feel you pulling at my strings, trying to tear yourself free. Rude.” 

“I-- tell me what I did wrong.” 

“That’s disappointing. What kind of apology can you make, if you can’t even figure out what you did wrong? But maybe that’s cruel of me. You’re not supposed to see the big picture, after all. You’re just a pawn. You see the parts you’re supposed to. I shouldn’t expect for you to know anything of importance at all. Nonetheless, you did do something wrong today, and you have to be punished for it until you learn your lesson.” 

“I _don’t know what the lesson is,”_ he says, gripping the lube bottle with a white knuckled grip. 

“Sounds like a you problem,” she says. “Get some slick on your hand and start fingering yourself open, Jon.” 

“No,” he says, but he flicks open the cap of the bottle. “No no no no _no.”_

He squeezes out a handful of transparent lubricant onto his palm, the unbandaged one, and then he reaches back-- _up--_

A high, undignified sort of noise escapes him as his slick fingers slide up inside where-- where he’s never touched himself before, not like _this._ Not as deeply as one of his fingers is already going, helped along with by the slickness. It’s his own hand, his own body, but it feels _invasive,_ violating. 

That might be the way Annabelle is smirking at him, resting her chin on her hand, her gaze roving luxuriously between the shifting expressions on his face and the movement of his own hand between his legs, taking in everything in between at each pass. 

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” she says. “Not a lot of experience. Well, that’s fine, we have more than enough time for you to get it right. Here’s a tip, do what feels good. Or what feels overwhelming, if you’re a bit too terrified to reach that qualifier right now. Any _affecting_ sensations, chase those, lean into it. Repeat movements that work for you.” 

“Shut up,” he says, and his voice comes out far more strained than it does spiteful. Another one of his fingers slips inside of him to join the first. The angle he has to twist his wrist at is awkward, and he feels that it’s going to become painful if he’s made to do this for much longer. 

“Insulting the woman who already has you shoving your fingers up your ass? Not a smart move, Jon. It’s really not been a great week for you, decision making wise.” 

He has nothing but questions (which he can’t ask), insults (which would be foolish to voice), and begging for mercy (which she wouldn’t listen to), so he just pants, harsh and loud. Almost loud enough to drown out the quiet slick noise of his fingers moving inside of himself-- 

His fingers crook and rub over a spot, and it punches a noise that he’s never heard himself make before out of him. 

“Oh, you found it! Good job, dear. Remember what I told you. Lean into whatever feels good.” 

His treacherous fingers obey her, his _hips_ obey her, trying to thrust himself deeper down on his own hand, his legs spread wide, braced on his knees. A whimper escapes him as he manages to stroke over that certain spot again, his eyes squeezing shut as sparks go off inside of his brain and his body involuntarily clenches up around his hand at the merciless touch. It’s too _much,_ like he’s found a keyboard wired to his nerves, and he’s just mashing all of the buttons. He wants to stop touching himself. He wants to never touch that spot again. He wants to _stop._

He doesn’t stop. His hips twitch down towards his fingers like they’re straining just as desperately towards making those wires spark again, blindingly bright. There’s a rising, high noise that he realizes belatedly _isn’t_ him. 

“Ah, good. It’s finally done. Be right back,” Annabelle says, and gets up out of the chair and leaves. She walks out of the room. 

Jon tries to stop touching himself. To get out of the bed. 

Instead, all he manages to do is lose his balance. He topples over onto his side, but he can’t stop fingering himself for even a moment. He keens and writhes on top of the sheets, as helpless as a fish struggling on a hook. 

“Ha, ah, _ha_ nnnno no no no, oh god,” falls out of him, unstoppable even though there’s nothing supernatural about _that._ It’s just him, overwhelmed by this unfamiliar and maddening touch that won’t stop or hesitate or give him a single moment to try and scrape his thoughts back into order. 

There’s a feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, and it isn’t dread. It’s warm, and tight. His fingers tease and stroke that spot inside of him, now up to three fingers, and he feels full and sensitive and terrified adrenaline is running through his veins and mixing strangely with this new sensation. 

Jon realizes with a pang of shocked humiliation that he’s _erect,_ his dick hard and straining. He whines and throws his free arm over his face, hiding his eyes within the crook of his elbow as his fingers move inside of him, gradually but inevitably stoking that banked fire that’s slowly heating him up from the inside out. He feels so hot, sweaty in a way that’s starting to catch at the sheets as he arches his back like he’s trying to get away from his own touch, except every movement just sparks off more-- 

With a strangled cry, he comes. It’s a brutal orgasm, not small or gentle, but instead like he’s being dragged through it as helplessly as if he’s being dragged across asfalt by a car. Betrayed by his own body. 

As the orgasm whites out his thoughts, and even past that, he doesn’t stop fingering himself for a single moment. He can’t. He feels weak and limp and boneless and still, still, he’s touching himself. 

He cries. He can’t help it. He feels scattered and shivery from the orgasm, like all of the parts of him have been spread wide across a surface, cracked open and vulnerable like a broken shell revealing the defenseless flesh inside. There’s no composure left in him to try and bite any noises back, and so they all slip out, pathetic mortifying things that don’t sound like anything he’s let himself vocalize before. It’s too much, he’s too sensitive, he can’t stop, he _can’t--_

“Come already?” Annabelle asks, her heels clicking back into the room. “That was fast.” 

He forces his blurry eyes open, weakly turns his wet face that’s pressed into the mattress in the direction of her voice. She’s settled back in the chair, now holding a fine porcelain cup and saucer with a tasteful flower pattern, steam gently drifting up from the cup. She takes a delicate sip of tea as he lies here on the bed, naked and sweaty, lying in sheets streaked with his own come, tears on his face, lube dripping down his inner thighs as he continues to touch himself. That had been a teakettle shrieking, earlier. She’d gone to go and get _tea,_ leaving him here to take himself to pieces like it was just something she could take a brief, casual break from. 

“Oh, you can stop now, by the way,” she says, as an afterthought. 

With a gasp like he’s a drowning man gasping for air, he pulls his hand out of himself. He tries to do it as quickly as possible, flinches, and makes himself do it slowly instead. The sheer relief of the pause in constant stimulation is enough to squeeze a few more tears out of him. 

He turns his face into the mattress, a knee jerk reflex to try and hide the tears from Annabelle, as if he has any dignity left in her eyes. Perhaps he’d never had any at all as far as she was concerned. No wonder she always seems so comfortable and superior, if she walks around all day knowing that she could reduce anyone she wants to _this_ with just a few words, whenever she feels like it. Humanity is just a toy box to her, when they aren’t useful chess pieces. 

For a long moment, he just lies there and breathes, feeling raw and hollow and exhausted. He can’t remember the last time he had an orgasm. It’s not something he’s really craved, since his early twenties. 

“Mm,” Annabelle says. “Do you like oolong, Jon? I could get you a cup.” 

Somehow, he finds enough energy left inside of himself to turn his face from where he’s got it pressed up against the bed to _glare_ at her. He still feels shaky and terrified, but also, he _hates_ her. 

“More of an Earl Grey sort of man?” she says, smiling slightly. Joking. 

_Are you done,_ he tries to ask, until he remembers: no questions. 

“I… assume I’ve been punished to your satisfaction now,” he says, voice hoarse. 

“Hm. About that. Do you know what you did wrong yet?” 

He stares at her, feeling like he’s been asked a question so off the wall that he has to take a moment to switch gears to even process it. But it’s not off the wall, it’s just that he doesn’t have a fucking answer to it. Was he supposed to be trying to come up with one while Annabelle left him to touch himself oversensitive and spent? 

“No? Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Like I said, slow on the uptake. Go and get a toy out of the drawer, pet. The biggest one you can find.” 

Jon gets up on shaky knees that feel weak enough to just barely not give out on him, like a newborn colt. 

“No,” he says. “No, wait. Wait! You have to _tell_ me what I did wrong--” 

“I don’t have to do anything you tell me to, actually. You aren’t holding my strings, after all. You’re not the sort of person who gets to make _decisions,_ Jon. The sooner you accept that, the better.” 

He’s moved to the top of the bed now, is leaning over to look into the drawer. He picks out the largest toy he can see. 

He can’t even quite wrap his fingers all the way around it. 

“Oh, perfect,” Annabelle gushes. “You think you can take that, Jon?” 

_“No,”_ he says, aghast. He can’t believe that _anyone_ can take this. It looks like it would _hurt,_ at the very least, instead of inspiring any sort of pleasure. 

“Come now,” she chastises him, a sadistic grin hiding at the edges of her words. “Don’t put yourself down like that. You haven’t even tried yet. We can go slow, if you like. I can be gentle. Try just sucking on it first.” 

“Anna--” He’s cut off by himself, pushing the dildo into his mouth. The head of it is wide and rounded, blunt, and it tastes vaguely of silicon. He pushes it further into his mouth, and his lips are spread open wide as he slowly feeds it into his mouth inch by inch. He makes a distressed sound, muffled around the girth of the toy. 

“Well, don’t you look pretty with something in your mouth? And you even sound better. All of the cute whimpering, none of the rude, annoying words. Try sucking on it, dear.” 

He sucks, and he shuts his eyes out of sheer humiliation. 

“Moan.” 

He moans. It sounds filthy and wanton, wet and muffled. 

_“Adorable._ Do you know what deepthroating is? You have to try and relax the muscles in the back of your throat to let the cock fuck into the hot clutch of your throat, or else you’re just going to activate your gag reflex and be sick everywhere. And no one likes that, except for how some people do. _I_ don’t, at least. Try it. Try your _best,_ because I’m not going to let you stop quite yet.” 

He makes a desperate, protesting noise, but he _shoves_ the dildo deeper down anyways. Frantically, he tries to do as she said. Relax the muscles of his throat. _Relax._ Don’t get sick. 

God, it feels even bigger than it looks. His jaw is starting to _ache._

“Excellent work, dear. Look at that, you’ve swallowed down more than half of it. I knew you could do it if you put your mind to it. What do you say to putting it up your other hole? You’ve made it so slick and inviting, after all.” 

He hurriedly shakes his head as best as he can with something shoved past his gag reflex. There’s tears of strain beading at the corners of his eyes, drool dripping down his chin. 

“What, you don’t think it’ll fit? I think it will. I think it’ll fit perfectly. The real question is, should I let you coat it in lube before you fuck yourself with it? You’ve already prepared yourself, so that should honestly be enough. Sure, it might be a bit _rough,_ but there’s a certain charm to that. And you’re already doing such a good job of covering that thing in spit and drool. That should be enough, right?” 

God, it’s so hard to focus enough to even breathe with this thing shoved down his throat. He looks at Annabelle, wide eyed and scared and trying to silently plead with her, his mouth full. She sits there, pretty and pristine in her lovely dress, tea and saucer held neatly in her lap, and she smiles at him. 

“Okay, you can take it out for now.” 

He takes it out. Strings of drool follow after the spit-slick and shiny head, and he curls up where he’s sitting to have a coughing fit as soon as it’s gone. 

“Please,” he says, and _now_ his voice is hoarse. He sounds like he’s been screaming for a long time. 

“Please what?” she asks him pleasantly. 

He grits his teeth, holding tightly onto the toy. He roughly swallows down his pride. As if there’s anything left there but tatters, anyways. 

“Please let me lube it up first,” he says, voice flat. 

At that, Annabelle leans back in her chair and lets out a sigh. A deeply satisfied, pleased sigh. 

“Well,” she says, looking at him with dark, half lidded eyes, “since you asked so nicely, fine. Go ahead. Lube it up, and then fuck yourself on that toy nice and hard until you come, dear.” 

“Thank you,” he makes himself say, with no strings pulling it out of him. It hurts a bit to say, and it’s not because she just made him fuck his own throat with a toy with the girth of a particularly large can of soda. 

“You’re welcome, Jon,” she says warmly. 

She looks like she’s enjoying herself. She looks neat and proper and relaxed, and she’s already wrung at least one orgasm out of him. She could do this all night. She could tell him to keep going while she went to go and have a _nap._ He has to appease her. He has to find a way to make her relent, to let him go, because he can vividly imagine her exhausting him until he passes out right where he is, and then continuing right where she left off once he wakes back up. Monsters don’t know mercy, and he needs to play this one’s game if he wants to leave this place. If that means acting grateful for getting to use lubricant then… fine. Fine, he will do what it takes to survive this. 

He opens the lube bottle, and pours out a generous amount onto the toy. He starts spreading it across the surface of it, a mockery of a handjob. 

Annabelle giggles. “It looks so large in your hands, Archivist. It’s fantastic.” 

“Yes,” he says, clipped, which is about as polite as he can bring himself to be at that very moment. Eventually, the toy is dripping and glistening, and the strings on him don’t let him stall, hesitate. His knees shift, spreading wider where he kneels, and he leans forwards, bracing himself on his bandaged hand as he reaches back with the toy and tries to angle it correctly so he can start sliding it into himself. 

He feels like he’s on the edge of hyperventilating. He’s breathing so quick and shallow that it feels like he’s on the verge of passing out. 

“Lovely,” Annabelle purrs. 

He clenches his jaw and starts to push the toy into himself. The rounded head of it catches, and he steels himself and tries to push it in, tries to unclench down there, to relax his muscles the way he had for the deepthroating. 

He hadn’t been very good at that. His throat still hurts. He’s going to _hurt._

The toy starts to slide into him. It’s a _stretch,_ and Jon chokes out breathless noise. The hand he’s braced on trembles, slips, and he tilts forward until he just barely catches himself on his arm. 

“Mm, good idea,” says Annabelle. “Get a good angle on it. Arch your back a bit for me, sweetie.” 

Jon arches his back so it's a slight inward curve, his arse sticking up into the air. He gulps in air, and tries to relax, and pushes the toy further in. 

_“Hah,”_ slips out of him, and his bandaged hand grasps at the sheets like they’re a lifeline, something to hold onto to keep him from falling. Out of his control, his hips twitch slightly towards the toy, trying to spear more of himself on it. A strained sound escapes his grit teeth. He wasn’t ready for more. He isn’t ready for more. He can’t do it, he doesn’t want to, it’s too much, he’ll get hurt. 

“Come on,” Annabelle coaxes him. “You’ve got the head nice and snuggled up inside of you. Be a good boy and take the rest. You can do that, can’t you? I know you can.” 

His hand _pushes,_ and the toy doesn’t budge an inch. He cries out, distressed. It’s pushing into him, it shouldn’t be there, it’s too much, get it out get it out _get it out--_

But the more he tries to make his hand pull, the more it pushes instead. It _hurts,_ too much too hard too fast. 

“Try spreading your legs a bit wider,” she advises him. His knees slide across the sheets, his legs spreading wider, wide enough that it aches in his thighs. He swears to god he can feel sweat pooling in the small hollow of his arched back. 

The toy slides another inch inside of him. He whimpers with how _full_ he feels, too full. 

“Oh, sweet thing, yes. You’re doing it. Keep going, love.” 

“Please,” he says helplessly, sounding broken and desperate. He’s too-- _too much_ to be able to bring himself to care. 

“Come on. You’re almost halfway there, darling. In fact, you won’t even have to take all of it. Just as much as fits inside of you. Aren’t I nice? Say thank you.” 

“Th-- thank you.” He’s shaking, his legs trembling, and he has his forehead planted on the bed, his hot breath wafting into his face in the small space he’s trying to hide his face away in. He feels like he’s a wire pulled taut, taut enough that it might snap apart at any moment, fraying at the edges. 

He breathes. In, out. Another inch slides into him, slow and merciless and _large,_ so large. He sobs, a thing that comes from deep in his chest and shakes him, and it feels so awful and wonderful with the toy stretching him open. He fucks himself down onto it with desperate, forced little hitches of his hips, and his chest heaves and tears stream from his eyes and he makes awful noises that don’t sound like himself. 

Eventually, he gets to a point that the toy won’t slide in further, no matter how much he tries. 

“Anna-- Annabelle,” he says, his voice tear clogged. “Please. I-- I--”

“You’ve done your best,” she says sympathetically. “I can see that. Good job, dear.” 

He hears her heels click on the floor. She’s approaching the bed. No, she’s approaching the drawer. He hears things move against each other as she looks from something there. What, what could she possibly be looking for? He can’t take any more, he _can’t--_

“Ah, there it is,” she says with satisfaction, and he tries to look and see what it is, even though his eyes are blurry and he feels like he can’t move a single inch without shifting the large thing stuffed inside of him. She’s… holding a small square thing. It looks like a-- 

Annabelle pushes a button on the remote, and the toy stuffed inside of him starts to _vibrate._ Jon screams, every single muscle in his body clenching up at the sudden sensation. 

“Aww. Do you like that, dear? It’s so deep inside of you. You did a really excellent job. Suck on your fingers.” 

Jon levers himself up on his elbow so he can stuff three fingers in his mouth and suck. He makes pained, overwhelmed noises around them, and Annabelle sits down delicately on the side of the bed. She reaches out, and runs her hand through his hair. The first time she’s touched him since he got here. 

“Just letting Jude burn you would’ve been easier than this, wouldn’t it?” she asks him. He stares at her in blank incomprehension as the toy buzzes inside of him, nestled deeper than anything ever has. “It would have just been a single moment, instead of this. But no, you had to go and break your promise to her, didn’t you? Not very honorable of you, Jon. Not very gentlemanly. Jerk yourself off.” 

Jon lets go of the base of the toy to wrap his still slightly slick fingers around his neglected cock, which is standing at attention again. He hates that. He hates how it just reacts, without his say so, if he’s touched a certain way. 

The amount of relief that hits him when he touches his dick makes him _moan_ around his fingers, and that’s the worst noise he’s made all evening. Annabelle hadn’t even told him to do that. 

“There you go, sweet thing,” she says fondly, tenderly wiping the tears from his face. “Rub yourself off good, you’ve earned it.” 

Jon’s hand strokes his cock hard and fast, and the toy splits him open and vibrates in a way that makes him feel like he’s going to fall to pieces, and he makes terrible noises that sound like he _wants_ this around his fingers as he sucks on them, and Annabelle pets him and helps him keep his balance and watches his face raptly like she doesn’t want to miss a single moment. 

Jon comes. It feels like violence, how brutally it overcomes him. 

The vibrations cease. He collapses down onto the bed like a puppet with its strings cut, sheer relief at the mercy coursing through him. The toy is still pushed deep inside of him, but at least it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to rattle him to pieces any longer. He’s just… full. So full that he doesn’t want to move a single inch. He’s still sucking on his fingers, like a child after a nightmare. 

God, he’s so tired. He could fall asleep right here, just like this. That would be bad, but he could. He could. 

“Turn over onto your back. Fingers out of your mouth,” Annabelle orders him. Jon obeys. The toy shifts inside of him at the movement, and he makes a weak noise. 

“Do you know what you did wrong?” she asks him, and his heart drops into his stomach. If he gets this question wrong again, she’s going to-- he can’t do this _again,_ not again, please please not again. 

Something inside of his head _moves,_ with sheer desperation. 

“I didn’t do as I was supposed to,” he says desperately, his voice shaking, and he somehow Knows that this is the right answer, what he’s supposed to say. “I should have just let myself be hurt.” 

_“Good_ boy,” she praises him, and strokes his hair again. “What are you going to do to make up for it?” 

“I’m going to find Jude,” he says, frantic to say and do whatever is needed to get out of his bed, this room, this house. “And I’m going to apologize to her, and let her burn me properly.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “Alright, take that thing out of you.” 

“Thank you,” he says, tears falling down his face, disgracefully grateful for it to just be _over_ already. 

“You’re very welcome, pet.” 

Jon takes the toy out. It’s a slow, torturous drag, but he gets it out. When he sits up it hurts, but at least there isn’t a gaping intrusion inside of him any longer. Annabelle reaches into the drawer and hands him something. It’s an anal plug, he thinks. 

“Put this inside of you, and keep it there until you get home,” she tells him. 

“Yes,” he says dully. It’s much smaller than the dildo, comparatively. “I will.” 

Annabelle leans forwards and chastely kisses his cheek. “I know you will, dear, whether you like it or not. So you might as well like it, right? That’s my advice.” 

Jon pushes the plug inside of him. It doesn’t take long, after being stretched open like that. Annabelle patiently watches him dress himself, then leads him back downstairs. 

“Thank you for the visit,” she says. “It was a delight. Feel free to come back over at any time.” 

“Goodbye,” is all he can bring himself to say. 

Annabelle blows him a kiss and closes the door. 

Jon has to find out where Jude Perry is and let himself be hurt. 


End file.
